interesting, useful experience.’
‘Hm. For how long?' A few months. Maximum six.’
‘Six?' Harry yelled.
'Be positive, Harry. You've got no family ties, no -’
‘Who else is in the team?' Meirik shook his head.
'No team. You're on your own. It seems more plausible that way. And you report directly to me.' Harry rubbed his chin.
'Why me, Meirik? You have a whole department of experts here on infiltration and the extreme right.’
‘There's always a first time.'
'And what about the Marklin rifle? We've traced it to an old Nazi and now there are these threats signed Heil Hitler. Isn't it better that I continue my work here…?'
'I have made up my mind, Harry' Meirik didn't bother to smile any more.
Something stank. Harry could smell it a long way off, but he didn't know what it was or where it was coming from. He stood up and Meirik followed suit.
'You leave after the weekend,' Meirik said. He put out his hand.
It struck Harry that was an odd thing to do and the same thought seemed to have crossed Meirik's mind at that moment too-there was self-consciousness in his expression. But now it was too late. The hand hung in the air, helpless, with splayed fingers, and Harry quickly pressed flesh to get the embarrassing situation over with.
As Harry passed Linda in reception, she shouted that there was a fax for him in his pigeon-hole and Harry nabbed it on his way past. It was Halvorsen's list. He ran his eye down the list of names while trudging up the corridor trying to work out which part of him would benefit from six months' socialising with neo-Nazis in some hole in southern Sweden. Not the part of him that was trying to stay sober. Not the part of him that was waiting for Rakel's response to his dinner invitation. And definitely not the part trying to find Ellen's murderer. He stopped in his tracks.
The last name…
There was no reason for him to be surprised that old acquaintances popped up on the list, but this was quite different. This was the sound he heard when he had cleaned his Smith amp; Wesson and then put it together again. The smooth click that told him everything fitted.
He was in his office and on the phone to Halvorsen in seconds. Halvorsen noted down his questions and promised to ring back as soon as he had something.
Harry leaned back. He could hear his heart beating. As a rule, this was not his forte, putting together small pieces of information which didn't seem to have anything in common. Must have been a moment of inspiration. When Halvorsen rang a quarter of an hour later, Harry had the feeling he had been waiting for hours.
'That's right,' Halvorsen said. 'One of the boot prints the Crime Scene Unit found on the path was from a combat boot, size 45. They could specify the brand because the print was made by a boot which had hardly been worn.'
'And do you know who wears combat boots?'
'Oh yes, they're NATO certified. Quite a few people order them, especially in Steinkjer. I've seen a number of these English football hooligans wearing them too.'
'Right. Skinheads. Bootboys. Neo-Nazis. Did you find any photos?'
'Four. Two from Aker Community Workshop and two of a demo outside Blitz, the youth centre, in 1992.'
'Is he wearing a cap in any of them?'
'Yes, in the ones taken at Aker.'
'Combat cap?'
'Let me see.'
Harry could hear Halvorsen's breathing crackle against the membrane of the microphone. Harry said a silent prayer. 'Looks like a beret,' Halvorsen said.
Are you sure?' Harry asked, with no attempt to disguise his disappointment.
Halvorsen was fairly sure and Harry swore aloud.
'Perhaps the boots can help?' Halvorsen suggested cautiously.
'The murderer will have thrown away the boots unless he's an idiot. And the fact that he kicked over the prints in the snow imply that he isn't.'
Harry was undecided. Again he had this sensation, this sudden certainty that he knew who the killer was, and he knew it was dangerous. Dangerous because it made you reject the nagging doubts, the small voices whispering the contradictions, telling you that despite everything the picture was not perfect. Doubts are like cold water, and you don't want cold water when you are close to apprehending a murderer. Yes, Harry had been certain before. And had been wrong. Halvorsen spoke.
'Officers in Steinkjer bought combat boots directly from America, so there can't be many places that sell them. And if these boots were almost new… '
Harry immediately followed his line of thought.
'Good, Halvorsen! Find out who stocks them. Start with army surplus places. Afterwards, go round showing the photographs, and ask if anyone remembers recently selling him a pair of boots.'
'Harry… Er…'
'Yeah, I know. I'll clear it with Moller first.'
Harry knew that the chances of finding a salesman who remembered all the customers he sold shoes to was minimal. The chances were, of course, slightly better when customers had Sieg Heil tattooed on their necks, but anyway-Halvorsen might as well learn that 90 per cent of all murder investigations were spent looking in the wrong places. Harry rang off and called Moller. The Crime Squad chief listened to all his arguments and when Harry was finished, cleared his throat.
'Good to hear that you and Waaler finally agree on something,' he said.
'Oh?'
'He called me half an hour ago and said almost exactly the same as you have just said. I gave him permission to bring Sverre Olsen in for questioning.'
'Wow.'
Absolutely'
Harry wasn't sure what to do. So when Moller asked him if he had any more to say, Harry mumbled a 'Bye' and put down the receiver. He stared out of the window. The rush hour was beginning to get into gear in Schweigaards gate. He picked out a man in a grey coat and old-fashioned hat, and watched him slowly walk past until he was out of sight. Harry could feel that his pulse was almost normal again. Klippan. He had almost forgotten, but now it returned like a pounding hangover. He wondered whether to call Rakel's internal number, but rejected that idea right away.
Then something weird happened.
At the margin of his field of vision, outside the window, a movement caught his eye. He couldn't make out what it was at first; he could only see it closing in fast. He opened his mouth, but the word, the shout or whatever it was his brain was trying to formulate, never passed his lips. There was a soft thud, the glass in the window vibrated lightly and he sat staring at a wet patch where a grey feather was stuck, quivering in the spring wind. He didn't move. Then he grabbed his jacket and sprinted for the lift.
63
Krokliveien, Bjerke. 2 May 2000.
Sverre Olsen turned up the radio. He flicked slowly through his mother's latest women's magazine while listening to the newsreader talk about the threatening letters trade-union leaders had received. The gutter directly above the sitting-room window was still dripping. He laughed. The threats sounded like one of Roy Kvinset's numbers. Hopefully there wouldn't be so many spelling mistakes this time.
He glanced at his watch. This afternoon the tables at Herbert's would be buzzing. He was flat broke, but he had repaired the old Wilfa vacuum cleaner this week, so perhaps Mum wouldn't mind lending him a hundred. Fuck
